


oh telephone line, give me some time

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 3+1 fic, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: Based on the prompt "malex phone calls bc sometimes its easier to say the things you need/want to say when its over the phone."Three times that Michael and Alex can't connect unless there's a phone line between them, and one time they can.





	oh telephone line, give me some time

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short, sweet drabble. . . it turned into this. 
> 
> Title is based on Telephone Line by Electric Lights Orchestra, which I've never actually heard. I used google, haha. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3 Come find me on tumblr, if you're so inclined. I'm seeaddywrite over there.

I. The first time Michael hears from Alex after he enlists, he nearly ignores the call. It’s been over a year since the incident in the shed; his hand is healed, and his heart has developed enough callous that he can pretend it has, too. Answering that call isn’t going to feed into that fantasy, because as soon as he hears Alex’s voice, Michael knows every defense he’s put up to contain that heartache is going to crumble. The smart thing to do would be to hit ‘ignore,’ and block the number – but while Michael may have a genius IQ, he’s never been known for doing the smart thing. The desire to hear Alex’s voice, to know he’s safe, overpowers every shred of common sense Michael possesses, and after the fourth ring, right before the call would be diverted to voicemail, he answers. 

“And here I thought you lost my number,” Michael drawls, refusing to let on that he’s as off-balance as he feels. It’s a tactic he’s adopted more and more, lately, as the entire town starts to move on from Rosa Ortecho’s death while he’s left mired in the guilt and consequences of it. “To what do I owe the pleasure, _private_?” Alex isn’t the in the Army and Michael knows it, but since he’s done nothing but breathe into the receiver since the call began, Michael’s in the mood to wind him up, to get on the offensive and stay there so that he doesn’t end up letting himself get his hopes up. Again. It’s too damn easy for Alex Manes to get in his head if Michael’s not on guard against it. 

The connection crackles, and Michael stands up from his bed in the newly-purchased second-hand trailer to move toward the door, where there’s usually better reception. “You planning on saying something, or should I just hang up now?” he demands, and his ears pick up the slightest hitch in breathing, a tell-tale sign that Alex is listening, and reacting, no matter what his silence might imply. But no matter how much of an asshole Michael is, he doubts it could cause the rapid breathing that sounds a hell of a lot like someone trying not to freak the fuck out. 

Abruptly, Michael feels his demeanor thaw, and he sighs. “What’s going on, Alex?” he asks, his voice carefully even. “You okay?” 

There’s another pause, and Michael begins to wonder if Manes had seriously called him to just sit on the line until Michael got frustrated enough to hang up. But then, finally, for the first time in over a year, Michael hears Alex speak. 

“I just had a really shit day,” he says, and his voice is rough enough that Michael can tell he’s being vague more because he can’t talk about it than because he doesn’t want to. “And I got back to my bunk, and I saw your number on my phone, and I just –” 

Michael blows a short, hard breath through his nose, a bitter half-smile contorting his expression. It’s a relief that Alex can’t see him, because God knows how he’d take that, but alone in his trailer, Michael doesn’t have to check himself. “And you just what, Alex? Why’d you call me? It’s been more than a year. And when you left, you made it pretty damn clear that you didn’t want to hear from me.” Guilt, Michael’s constant companion, rears its ugly head. Alex is obviously upset about something to have even made this call in the first place, and Michael’s rehashing ancient history. But he has to know what this call is and why it’s happening. He has to moderate his expectations; otherwise, he’s going to end up thinking it’s something it’s not – and Michael’s all out of optimism. 

A throat clears on the other end of the line, and Michael tries to picture Alex as he would look now, without the eyeliner and piercings, in ABUs with a buzzcut, but he can’t quite manage it. To him, Alex is always going to be the wannabe rebel who gave him a place in out of the cold – the one person who’d known about the chaos in his head and been able to calm it. 

“I called because – because I watched someone die today, Guerin.” This time, it’s Michael’s breath that catches in his throat. He’s aware, obviously, that Alex is in an active fucking warzone, and that he could get hurt at anytime, but the stark reminder that Alex could end up like whatever poor, unlucky soul they’d lost today was enough to jolt him out of the harsh attitude. “And afterward, all I could think about was how much I wished you were here,” Alex continues, his voice a raw whisper. “Because you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe, and I could really, really use that right now. And I know I’m the last person that you want to hear from, but I –”

“You know better than that, Alex.” Michael cuts him off mid-sentence, unable to take anymore of the tremor in the other man’s voice. There’s a lot Michael would do to protect himself, to protect his family, but standing by while Alex is in pain and there’s something he can do about it is a physical impossibility. He can’t even summon anger, at the moment. “And if you don’t, you’re nowhere near as smart as I thought you were.” 

He’s about to say something he knows he’ll regret later. In person, he’d never manage to get the words out, but in the isolation of the Airstream, with no eyes on him, Michael can’t stop the words from spilling out. “I always want to talk to you. Every damn morning when I wake up, that’s the first thing I think about. Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell you about it. And every fucking night when I’m lying in bed, I wonder what it’d be like if you were laying next to me.” By the time he’s done, his voice is as hoarse as Alex’s, and he knows there’s no hiding it. As always, talking to Alex has left him flayed open and vulnerable, the layer of callous he’d built painstakingly around his heart worn away to nothing. 

“So, yeah. You need me? You call me. I’ll always answer.”

Again, silence reigns on the phone line, and MIchael’s eyes slide closed against the insecurities that bubble up as soon as he realizes that Alex isn’t planning on saying anything. He rests his forehead against the humid metal of the door, staring down at the dirty tile of the entryway, and is about to end the call – and his own misery – when Alex says, so softly he can barely hear it: “That was exactly what I needed to hear.”

XXXXXXXXXX

II. Michael doesn’t get a phone call when Alex is injured in the line of duty. He’s not family – he’s nothing, apparently, and doesn’t even rate a text. So he hears it about it from Maria in the middle of the Wild Pony a couple of weeks later, just dropped into casual conversation that Alex Manes is coming home since loss of limb disqualifies him from serving on the front lines. That night, after he’s drunk enough that he can’t think about it anymore, he punches Kyle Valenti in the parking lot. The adrenaline rush helps keep thoughts of Alex away, but the night in lock-up passes slowly, and insomnia keeps him awake, worrying and wondering about Alex, and imagining what it’ll be like to see him again. There’s no way they can avoid each other forever in a town this small, even if part of Michael would like to try, and he knows that the urge to be in Alex’s presence would overpower any self-protective instinct, anyway.

Alex shows up at the ranch where Michael lives and works a few days later, every inch his father’s son, and the bitterness exudes from Michael in waves the entire time they speak. He’s losing a job and a home, technically, but he cares more about the way Alex barely meets his gaze, and when he does, his expression is cool and professional. There’s nothing of the boy Michael remembers in this GI Joe, and he resents the new Alex for so thoroughly destroying the person he loved. 

It’s stupid, and probably unfair to feel that way. For the last eight years, Alex had held him to his word that he could call if he needed Michael. They’ve talked at least once or twice a year, usually when something god-awful happened and Alex needed the reminder that the world was still turning, that he was still alive. Michael wondered, sometimes, if it wouldn’t have been better for Alex to find someone else to give him that – this dynamic they created couldn’t be healthy, and spending every day hoping for a call that rarely came was slowly driving Michael out of his mind. But the point is that they’ve talked. Michael knew, all along, that military service was changing Alex – in the later calls, some of the things he said, all ruthless and aggressive, weren’t words that would have ever been in teenaged Alex’s vocabulary. So this version of the man, aloof and battle-hardened, every inch the Manes man Jesse always wanted, shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But it still did, and fuck, it hurt. 

Michael gets rid of Alex after that encounter, but he keeps showing up at his door, pinning notices and flirting until he catches himself, but it isn’t until the shitty high school reunion that Michael didn’t even want to go to that he finally sees his Alex beneath the uniform. It’s also the first real glimpse he gets of the prosthetic, shiny and artificial, beneath his pant leg. That’s nothing, of course – Alex could be stuck in a suit a la Darth Vader and he’d still be the sexiest man alive in Michael’s eyes. But it’s just another reminder of everything that’s changed, and everything Michael no longer has.

The kiss that night, the sex the following one – all of it is so good, so reminiscent of their time together in high school that Michael forgets, almost, how hard it is to watch Alex walk away. He’s good at putting on rose-colored glasses when it comes to the past, but this time, he’s definitely done too well. This time, when Alex walks away, calling him a criminal and rejecting him thoroughly in the meantime, Michael feels something integral in his chest shut down. There’s no getting back up after someone shoves him that hard, and he’s not sure he even wants to. He goes through the rest of the day on autopilot; he fights with Max and schemes with Isobel to protect their secrets, but internally, he’s a living, breathing open wound. 

When he finally gets an evening to himself, Michael drinks so much acetone-laced whiskey that he barely remembers leaving the voicemail the next day, let alone what it says. He’d never say any of it to Alex’s face; the guilt alone would kill him. But when Alex checks his inbox next, the words are there, heart-rending and painful, even as it’s slurred and difficult to understand: 

_“Hi.”_ There’s a loud thudding noise, and someone yells for Michael to ‘get the fuck out of the way’ in the middle of the recording. _“I don’t know what I’m fucking doing, you know? I haven’t known what I’m doing for ten years. I’m just here. In Roswell, and you were halfway across the frickin’ world and I still couldn’t escape you. And then those phone calls –”_ Michael laughs bitterly, the alcohol granting the sound a borderline hysterical tinge. _“I actually thought they meant something, you know? All that stuff about me making you feel safe. About you needing me. Makes you wonder if whoever gave me that IQ test actually knew what the hell they were doing, right?”_ Another one of those sour laughs distorts the recording. _“I got what, two days, maybe, of spending time with you, and that shouldn’t have been enough to fuck me up when you gave up, but God, Manes, I don’t – nothing about how I feel about you makes sense. I want you so bad it hurts. I was literally laying in bed last night, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how it felt to have you there. So yeah, I want you and I miss you, but fuck, Alex, sometimes – right now – I wish I’d never met you.”_

XXXXXXX

III. After he leaves Michael’s alien-tech bunker, Alex doesn’t know whether he wants to get a stiff drink, to go to bed, or to throw a temper tantrum. He ends up at the Wild Pony and ends up doing two out of three when he sits down to talk to Maria. He realizes, looking back, that talking to her right after he found out that she’d slept with Michael, when the hurt was still fresh, was a stupid idea. He hadn’t been cruel, exactly, but he hadn’t handled it very well, either, and he knows he hurt her. He’s been doing that a lot lately – hurting people he loves. Michael’s at the top of the list, obviously, but now Maria is just below, and he doesn’t know how to fix it with either of them.

Post-deployment, Alex knows he’s a mess. He’s always been some level of fucked up; a father who’s leisure activities included breaking one’s bones would do that to a kid. But at least as a child, he’d had other people to turn to. There’d been Jim Valenti, and Mimi DeLuca, and Liz and Maria, who’d become more like family as they got older. He’d had a support system, and people to talk to when he needed to work through the things that happened to him at home. 

In the desert, though, there’s an ‘every man for himself’ mentality that’s impossible to shake now that he’s home. His unit would’ve died for him, and he for them, but they didn’t talk about harsh realities or fears. That was inviting bad luck, and the had enough as it was. And then, when he was sent back state-side, physical therapy was far more important than the ‘sit in a chair and cry’ kind. He did the required sessions, but when that was done, Alex was left to cope on his own. 

Michael’s born the worst of his behavior changes, he knows, just like he knows that the way he keeps walking back into the man’s life for a few days only to leave again is wrong. But how can he commit to anything permanent with Michael when he can’t even keep his own head on straight? He needs to relearn what it is to be a person without a uniform, and he needs time to do that – but he’s always thought, when he manages to do it, Michael would be there. Waiting. But Michael’s sleeping with other people and building a fucking spaceship to leave the planet, and Alex is running out of time. 

Kyle’s call comes just in time to stop Alex from getting shift-faced in the middle of the afternoon, and he supposes he should be grateful. The code-breaking distraction is nice, but it leaves him with a head full of information he doesn’t know what to do with when he’s back at home in the sparsely-furnished cabin. Alone. The place hasn’t really felt lonely before, but Alex supposes he’s never known Michael hates the world enough to want to leave it permanently, either. That’s bound to make a difference. 

When he’s settled in bed, prosthetic propped against the wall near his crutches, Alex scrolls listlessly through his Facebook feed, knowing he’s not getting any real rest that night. He’d like to say it’s purely accidental when his finger lands on Michael’s number – but the truth is that he’s been the number one speed dial in Alex’s phone for ten years, and the cabin is too quiet, and all Alex wants in that moment is to hear Michael’s voice and get some reassurance that he won’t disappear overnight. And why is it so much fucking easier to say things like that on the phone? 

“If you’ve uncovered another government conspiracy, I don’t want to know about it,” is how Michael answers the phone. There’s no noise in the background, suggesting he’s as alone as Alex. That knowledge shouldn’t make him feel as good as it does, Alex knows, but he can’t help it. “Seriously, man, just keep it to yourself, because I’ve had about all the excitement I can take.” 

Alex snorts, and shakes his head before remembering Michael can’t see him. “Just the one,” he promises. “That’s not why I’m calling, though.” He leans back against the pillow behind him, rubbing absent-mindedly at the indents left by the compression sock around his residual limb. 

There’s a beat of silence, then: “If this is some sort of phone sex proposition, I’m going to have to remind you that today you said you wanted to be friends.” The drawl is full of insinuation, and Alex is infused with the knowledge that if he said that he did want to have phone sex, or the up-close-and-personal kind, Michael wouldn’t say no. Even after everything, Guerin’s still willing to drop everything for him. The realization is both humbling and terrifying. 

“I lied,” Alex admits, swallowing heavily. 

“I know.” 

The response is simple and direct, but Alex wishes Michael would elaborate. He knows? How exactly is Alex supposed to take that? Before he can work himself up into proper frustration, though, Michael finishes, “I don’t think we can ever just be friends, Manes. And the way you took off like a bat outta hell when I showed you the console just proves it.” 

Alex’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?” He thinks he knows the answer, or can at least take a pretty good guess, but he’s not sure he wants to say the words aloud and be told otherwise, so he holds his silence. 

“All this time, you’ve been the one walking away,” Michael says, the words succinct and devoid of accusation – he just sounds exhausted, which is worse than any sharp-edged words Alex can imagine. “You were in control. Now, when I might be the one who does the leaving, you don’t like it.” 

Abruptly, hurt swamps Alex, shoving out every other feeling, and his head spins with the redirection. “You think this is about control?” he demands, each word as quick and sharp as the pinch of a needle. “You think I was upset because I didn’t get to _hurt you first_ this time? Fuck, Guerin, why would you even bother to pick up the phone if that’s what you think of me?” 

“I told you a long time ago that I’d always be here if you needed me,” Michael answers, and finally, instead of that world-weary tone, Alex hears resentment creeping back. It’s probably fucked up that he prefers that, but he doesn’t care. An angry Michael is one who hasn’t given up yet, and that’s what Alex needs from him. “And I’d hate myself if I broke a promise to you.” 

Alex doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know where to even begin, so he just blurts, “It’s not about control,” like Michael hadn’t spoken at all. It’s the coward’s way out, but Alex has always lost his courage when it comes to Michael. “I know I’m the reason we’re not together, Guerin. I know I keep pushing you away and hurting you, but the idea of living on a planet where you don’t exist anymore is the single most terrifying thing that I can imagine.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, holds it for a moment, and lets it out. It’s one of the few useful things his VA-appointed therapist had taught him, and it centers him enough to let him realize that this is the worst possible way to tell Michael anything important, when he can’t even see his face or kiss him, but Alex can’t stop now. “I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen, and I’ve always had this picture in my head of what my life would look like, you know? I’d be old and grey and sitting a rocking chair on a front porch somewhere far away from Roswell, somewhere where there’s actual green grass. And when I pictured it, usually on really shit days when my dad had just knocked me down the stairs, or when I was sweating my balls off in the middle of Afghanistan, you were always right there next to me on that porch– still trying to flirt even with bad eyesight and a bum hip.” 

He chuckles, the sound sadder than it should be, and cuts off anything Michael might have said. “And I just wanted you to know that, before I tell you that the last piece of that console is in your truck bed. I left it there, this morning.” Alex struggles to keep talking; it’s hard to push sound through the lump in his throat, but he manages. He always manages. “Jim Valenti left it for me, and I’m – I’m giving it to you. So you can find your home. Because I want you to be happy, Michael. There’s no one who deserves it more than you. So – I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

Alex doesn’t want to hear him say goodbye, or to stumble through what would be the final, official end of this thing that’s burgeoned between them for a decade. His heart can’t take that. 

He ends the call. 

XXXXXXXX

IV. Less than a month later, Michael hasn’t gone anywhere. 

Alex has seen him, worked with him, and even flirted with him, but they’ve avoided talking about anything personal. There’s too much raw emotion compressed between them; if given the smallest flame, it would explode and devour them both. There’s no time, anyway – Isobel’s husband is an alien serial killer, Jesse Manes is masterminding a government conspiracy that has to be stopped, and Michael’s entirely too distracted by the realization that his home planet may not be somewhere he actually wants to go. (The latter is hopeful thinking on Alex’s part, since they aren’t talking about anything personal, but after hearing what Noah said about a war-torn world, it’s a distinct possibility.) 

Now that things have settled down more, Alex finds himself alone a lot. It’s no more than he was lone before being dragged into the madness that was aliens and government conspiracies, but the constant company and forced camaraderie that developed among the group of them working to keep Michael and his siblings safe had been almost nice – and the absence of it is obvious, now, while he sits alone in his living room, staring mindlessly at the television. 

His enlistment with the Air Force ended that morning. 

Alex still hasn’t wrapped his mind around that fact; the thing that is simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to him is gone, now, and he’s free. There are choices to make, pros and cons to consider, and all he’s managed to do that day is sit around and feel sorry for himself in the dim lighting of his living room. And drink. Can’t forget that last part. 

What is he going to do, now? Aside from continuing to work on taking Jesse Manes down, Alex has no plans. He can live for a while on his retirement stipend, but eventually, he’s going to need to get a job – go back to school, maybe? Get a degree in IT? It would be the expected thing, considering his background, but Alex can’t help but think a job behind a desk sounds like the most boring fate imaginable. He lost a leg, not his sense of adventure, and he want doesn’t to commit himself to something that he’s going to hate. 

So, what then, does he want from his Air Force-less future? 

When the answer comes, it’s the same one as always. Alex wants to be happy. He wants to leave Roswell and move somewhere that he can have a real yard, and see all four seasons. He wants to have a dog and a job doing something that interests him, and a big enough kitchen that his friends can come for dinner without an invitation. But all of that is secondary to the most obvious of Alex’s desires: Michael Guerin. He wants that future he spelled out for him in that last, painful phone call, with rocking chairs and wrinkles and inappropriate flirting, and he wants it so much that his chest physically aches with longing when he thinks about it. 

Maybe it’s the beer, or maybe Alex has just had enough of waiting and hoping that life will just work out the way he wants it to. He’s been a passive observer in his own life for too long, letting his insecurities and anxiety run the show, and for once, Alex is going to take control for himself. 

Before he can talk himself out of it or even second-guess the decision, Alex is behind the wheel of his SUV, headed toward the junkyard where Michael parks his trailer. He has no idea what he’s going to say, or how Michael will react to Alex just showing up like this, but for once, the uncertainty doesn’t scare him. They’ve both managed to be honest before with a phone line between them – it’s time to stop hiding behind his iPhone and admit that he’s in love with Michael Guerin out loud and in person. After that, the ball will be in Michael’s court, and Alex will have at least tried. If it doesn’t work, at least he won’t have to go to his grave wondering what would have happened if he’d been strong enough to do it.

Alex’s heart is racing by the time he pulls up in front of the trailer, and his palms are sweating. He feels like that teenager about to make a move on the boy he likes in the shed again, and it’s astounding, since Alex has been pretty sure that part of him died in Baghdad. 

Michael meets him outside the front door, wearing old jeans and a ratty t-shirt that mean he’s been working on engines all day. Oil streaks his hands and clothing, he’s sweating, and obviously in need of a shower. Sane people wouldn’t be attracted to that.

Alex has never wanted to kiss him so badly. 

“I thought about calling you,” he begins, a small smile playing around the corners of his lips. “Since we only ever seem to be able to actually talk that way. But – I don’t know. I guess this time, I wanted to be able to see your face.” The space between them closes as Alex steps forward. Michael doesn’t come to meet him, but he doesn’t step back, either, which Alex takes as a good sign. 

“The last time I asked you what you wanted to talk about, you got the after-school special version of my childhood,” Michael says dryly, sauntering toward the lawn chairs sitting around the fire pit. “And then you told me Max, Iz, and I were on a government watchlist, and under suspicion of being serial killers. Should I start packing to run, this time?” He’s mostly kidding, Alex thinks, but there’s something in the depths of his eyes that says it would be easier for him to believe that someone else was coming after them than Alex wanting to commit. Alex supposes he deserves that, even if it stings. 

He joins Michael at the cold fire pit and sits, taking a moment to adjust the compression sock where it’s slipped and rubs against his skin. As usual, Michael doesn’t bat an eye at the sight of his prosthetic – he still can’t quite believe that the other man just took the loss of Alex’s leg in stride the way he did. Even when they were having sex, Michael didn’t ask any questions, or treat him any differently than he had before the amputation. That alone is enough to solidify Alex’s certainty that he needs to at least try to convince Michael to give him another chance.

“I don’t have any bad news this time, I swear.” Alex looks over at Michael and smiles nervously, taking a moment to catalogue every curl of his hair and lines on his face. If this goes sideways, he wants to remember Michael just like this when he leaves Roswell – relaxed and content, heathy and at least mostly happy, now that he and his family are safe. 

Michael gives him a moment before raising an expectant eyebrow. “There’s a shower calling my name, Manes, so if you want my attention you better start talking.” The teasing note in the other man’s voice is the same one that has crept in the last few weeks as they danced painstakingly around the giant pink elephant in the room, and Alex hates it. He hates the distance it puts between them, and everything it represents. 

“The last time I called you, I told you that I was in love with you,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he could take it back and dress up the declaration into something better than that bald, blunt truth. “And I wanted to say it again, in person, because last time it got twisted into a goodbye, and I’m so fucking tired of saying goodbye to you, Guerin.”

Stunned incredulity blossoms over Michael’s face, and Alex sits stiffly in the ensuing silence, waiting for him to say something. He understands needing time to process, but Alex feels like he’s sitting on pins and needs as he waits. 

“What?” When the response comes, it’s not at all what Alex wants. Michael looks genuinely confused by what he’s said, like he thinks he heard wrong or something ridiculous, and Alex wants to shake him, to say it over and over again until he understands. 

“I love you,” Alex repeats baldly, turning frustration to courage with sheer force of will. He pushes himself out of the flimsy lawn chair and skirts the fire pit, moving to Michael’s side and grabbing his hand to tug him up, out of the chair. To his relief, the other man doesn’t fight it, and stands directly in front of Alex, less than six inches of space separating them. They’re close enough that Alex can feel the heat wafting off of Michael’s body, and the scent of a man who’d spent a long day doing physical labor in the sun shouldn’t electrify his skin, but a shiver runs down Alex’s spine anyway. Sex has never been a problem for the two of them, and even now, Alex is pretty sure he’d want Michael in any form he came. 

“I’m in love with you,” he modifies, in case there was any doubt, and rushes on before Michael can tell him to stop or leave. “I was sitting at home today trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life, now that I’m out of the military, and the only answer I could come up with was that I wanted to be with you. Everything else, I have no fucking clue. Do I go back to school? Do I get a job? How am I going to support myself? I don’t have any idea, but I know that I want to get old with you and make people uncomfortable with how sappy and in love we are in fifty years.” Alex can hear the hopeful longing in his own voice and hopes that Michael can, too, so he knows how serious he is, this time.

Michael opens his mouth to say something, but Alex puts a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I know what you’re going to say. I’ve shown up like this before, and I’ve always gotten your hopes up and left, and I’ve hurt you so many times that you have absolutely no reason to trust me, but God, Guerin, I feel like I’ve been on pause for a decade of my life, waiting to finally feel like the person you deserve to be with. But I’m never going to be that person. This is who I am – but every part of me is in love with you, and I’m done running. Try one more time. Take a chance; I swear you won’t regret it. I –” 

Anything else Alex might have said is swallowed by Michael’s mouth on his. The movement is so quick Alex can barely track it; suddenly, there is a big, calloused hand at the back of his neck and another at the collar of his flannel, yanking him in. He almost overbalances on his bad leg – and shit, wouldn’t that just ruin the moment? – but Michael’s chest is there, warm and firm and supportive. And then, just like that, they’re kissing. 

Just like every other kiss they’ve shared since they were seventeen, this one is so intense that Alex goes from anxious to turned on in less than a moment. Every brush of Michael’s skin against his feels like static electricity, and he can feel himself flush under the attention. It’s soft, tentative and sweet for a fleeting moment as they get used to each other again, but it turns hard and bruising quickly, as both men lose their patience to pleasure. Alex would have been fine to end the conversation there. This is what he wanted – to touch Michael and be touched in return, to kiss him and hold him whenever he wanted, to know that when he needed him, Michael would be there, and vice versa. They’d been dancing around this for so long that now, standing on the cusp of it, Alex felt like he was diving off of a cliff … and he’d never been happier to be so fucking terrified. 

“You talk too much,” Michael rasps, when their screaming lungs force them to come up for air. Their foreheads are leaned together, sweaty and flushed, but Alex only cares that they’re still fused together. Half of him is afraid that if Michael lets go of him, the magic of the moment will wear off and Alex will find himself back at home, alone again. 

Alex tries to glare at him, but he’s fairly certain the expression is far too sappy to be considered angry. “Excuse me?” 

“You talk too much,” Michael repeats, unrepentant. “If you’d let me get a word in edgewise, we could’ve been kissing like ten minutes earlier, and we could be in bed already.” He nuzzles a kiss alongside Alex’s jaw, just the barest hint of lips against the sensitive skin, and Alex shudders. In return, he slips the fingers of one hand up into Michael’s curls, carding at the matted hair gently in the manner he knows will make the other man melt. To his delight, Michael pushes his head into the contact, urging him to continue. 

“Everything I said was important,” he tells Michael, trying to muster up some indignance – and giving in quickly. He’s too euphoric to feel anything but happiness, and he doesn’t wan to even try. “You have to know that I’m –

Michael huffs, and shakes his head, interrupting Alex’s explanation. “You still don’t get it,” he says, and there’s a fond exasperation in his eyes that makes Alex feel warm all over. “I told you a long time ago that I’d always be here when you needed me, Alex. That wasn’t bullshit. I’ve never given up on you. Even when I wanted to. So it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve walked away, as long as you’re walking back.” He drops a kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth, then wraps his arms around his waist and hugs him so tightly that Alex gasps a little at the impact. He clutches back just as tight, feeling a little light-headed. _This is real._ This is happening.

“So, that means –” 

“It means we’re gonna have to figure out where we buy matching old man rocking chairs,” Michael drawls, the fingers of his good hand soft as they slip beneath the hem of Alex’s shirt and rest against his bare back. “Because you’re stuck with me for at least the next hundred years.” He kisses him again, then, and Alex tastes the words he didn’t say on his tongue. 

_I love you._


End file.
